#penance au

[sometimesanartdragon]

What if. What if Dreamtale had a different beginning?

It never made sense to me to have the tree of feelings life be directly connected to its guardian. Nor the guardian having to make their own replacements. So what if while Nim was dying from the attack on her and the tree... the tree defended itself and chose (aka forced) a new guardian into place.

this is a penance AU or a forced guardian of feelings AU. The man who killed Nim and tried to take from the tree is now bound to it forever. He has no choice but to protect the tree he tried to steal from.

Don't worry though the twins will still be a part of this story. Nim had no idea the tree would claim a new guardian and still desperately used her magic to make her "replacements" only this time they get a very exhausted dad to keep them safe while they help protect the tree of feelings

[aotearoa20]

Penance: Part One. One/Two/Three

The little messenger of the Valar was actually very lucky to have found them all together at the same time.

There were many rooms and long corridors in Mandos. Ambarussa had found Curufin in this one some time ago, on the small outcropping of rock by an underground waterfall. And he would not be moved. He sat with a form that was barely distinguishable and stared out at where the water hit the pool, causing a continuous spray of bioluminescence.

Caranthir had no intention of lingering beside his brother’s bitterness. He wandered, often to the Halls of Vaire. He met his grandmother and her handmaidens. Sometimes he looked for news in the tapestries. Sometimes he could persuade the solemn to give him work. They never let him do more than untangle threads but in a being barely corporeal, it was enough of a challenge to keep him for utter boredom.

Ambarussa wandered too, Amras trailing after his twin as he showed every nook and cranny left in the Halls. But they returned now and again, trying to coax their brothers into their explorations. Celegorm followed them once or twice but usually remained within eyeshot of the little room with the waterfall.

It was pure chance that Caranthir had ended at back there at the same time as the twins and nothing was said of it. They didn’t speak all that much, well, save Amrod who never really stopped. He seemed scared of the empty space.

Mandos is quiet. For weary broken souls, the silence is a balm. A space to reorient and to heal. But Amrod has long come to terms with himself. Amrod is long healed and Caranthir knows the dark quiet has been smothering him. He thinks he may go mad and could almost laugh at the irony.

A light appeared in the doorway and it was strange. There was light down here. Green flamed lamps and plants that glowed hues of violet and blue. But this was different. This was warm and too bright for his imagined eyes. The figure obscured its glare was tangible enough for his footsteps to echo.

"What news, friend?" Amrod smiled.

Caranthir shivered. It’s eerie the ease with which Amrod could speak with Namo’s Maiar. Their presence still filled him witth a sense of dread, though this one didn’t seem to. Celegorm stood as it drew near but made no move towards it. There was somethingwrong about it. It was too bright, too solid -

“I’m looking for Maedhros Fëanorian.”

There was a beat of silence before Amrod grinned, “You are not dead”

There was a excitement in his voice that sounded nearly like a threat. The stranger lowered the lamp and as his face came into view, Caranthir was almost certain he knew him.

“Lúthien,” he heard Celegorm whisper and with that he was certain.

“You’re Elros’ brother” he said as he rose to his feet. The elf opened his mouth to reply but for a moment no words come out. As if he didn’t know where to pursue his first question or ask a new one.

“He came this way before he left.” Caranthir continued making the choice for him, “He also asked for Nelyo.”

“I am Elrond Peredhel.”

Half Elven. Dior’s grandson. He would have been the Prince of Doriath if fate and his family had been kinder.

“But you are not following him?”

He would have assumed so. He knew their own twins dealt ill with being parted. Elros had not stayed long. Caranthir’s remembered thinking of asking him to carry a message to the otherside. Perhaps he should have.

But it would appear this one was not bound for the Doors of Night. Amrod was right, he was still living and evenso he could sense a solidness to his fëa that his brother did not have.

“No.”

“What do you want?,” Curufin's voice cut sharp from his little crevice of stone.

“To speak with Maedhros.” Elrond replied, undeterred by the coldness of it. 

“Why?”

Caranthir took a breath he didn’t need, ready to defend the poor boy from whatever was about to leave his brother’s mouth when they were both silenced.

“Elrond?”

They all turned to the shadowed door.

Maedhros had arrived so close to fading, they feared they would lose him forever. Even now his fëa was barely a wisp of a thing. It was as if the darkness had found a voice.

“So for this one he’ll appear, but we are not so worthy,” Celegorm doesn’t quite growl but Caranthir elbowed him as hard as an incorporeal spirit can elbow another. He might scare Nelyo away for another hundred years.

“Maedhros…” Elrond began, the word hung in the air a moment before he shook his head and looked away, “I have petitioned the Valar for your release.”

“Little pity,” Amras echoed softly.

Elrond turned to the voice and nodded, “but not none at all, I have come to you all with a proposition”

“All of us?” Celegorm said in surprise, he like the rest, assumed any bargaining would be for Nelyo alone. But the half-elf smiled and went to sit on a small shelf of rock. His grip on the lamp shook faintly as he placed it down.

He took a breath and said, “The Valar, Namo especially, have no desire to keep you in here until the world’s breaking. Some of you have been in these Halls longer than Morgoth himself and your crimes though terrible could not be counted as worse than his.”

Caranthir didn’t intend to laugh, but Celegorm chuckled beside him and he found he could not help himself.

“Even so,” Elrond stared at them both unimpressed, “There are many who would argue most of the great woes of the world came to being at Morgoth’s first release and the Valar would have you free to sow discord in Aman. If you were to return there would be conditions.”

Unease shivered through his fëa. Caranthir wasn’t sure he wanted to know of whatever deal Elrond teased out of the Valar. Return would be a curse while the Oath hung over them. Here at least it slept once they realised there could be no escape from the Halls. Better they languish here until Maglor deigned to joined them, and with him any chance of reclaiming the last of their own. And then to Darkness, whatever that entailed. Compared to rhe alternative it would be a relief.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the boy’s efforts. Misguided though they were he had no reason to go through the trouble. It was sweet really.

“You would be put under the responsibility of one of the Valar and under their service – ”

Never mind, he was a petty bastard. Caranthir almost respected him for it. He laughed again, harsh and deliberate. This had to be a joke.

“That’s no reprieve, it is another prison.” Curufin had no face with which to glare. The flickering mist the made him up seemed to pulse and condense in on itself.

“But we could be free of this place.” Amras muttered, wincing more out of habit than anything else as his twin gripped his shoulder.

“To what end?” Curufin hissed, “Are we to be thralls until the end of time?”

“The Valar agreed they would be poor judges of the length of such service. A small council was appointed to judge when it would be safe for you to be left free and unchecked. Olwë, Elwing and Nimloth. Idril also was asked but she said would trust in the wisdom of the three.”

“Then we should be slaves forever! Who would agree to such a bargain?!”

More was said, by most of them, with far less grace. Caranthir himself had no desire to be the lackey of any of the Powers. He was quite comfortable down here, awaiting their doom in his own dread and despair and he was more happy to explain that to the little upstart.

Elrond sat patient enough until their protests died down.

“I have spoken with my father,” he said, quietly softly now, his eyes landed on each of them, “He said if you would agree to these terms, he would return to you the last of the Silmarils for as long as it was necessary to release from your Oath.”

The silence that fell was black and cloying. Maedhros had told them he and Maglor had watched over the peredhel twins for a time. He’d said little more, only to get him off his case, the last time they had been visited by other. Given the extent the Oath had ravaged him by the time he arrived here, they all gathered that it would not have been a pleasant experience for any involved.

He studied the boy’s gentle expression. Did he know the power he held over them all in a single sentence? He must. He must know he could get them to agree to anything for the sake of that offer. It would be a fitting and complete vengeance for this prince of the Sindar to hold the fate of them all at his mercy. Except he couldn’t align such cunning with the person before him.

And for all the humiliation being at the beck and call of the Valar would be, given the truly limitless possibilities, it was a fairly tame punishment. Perhaps it would have to be for the Powers to agree to it.

“What of our father?” Celegorm said suddenly, his voice strangely void of its usual elegance, “and Maglor, we don’t even know where he is.”

“This offer is open to all of you, I can go no further into Mandos like this but Namo said he would speak to Feanor” Elrond sighed, “As for Maglor, he is found. He rests in my house.”

“Is he alright.” Maedhros asked in a tight voice.

“He is not,” Elrond replied and for some strange reason he seemed grieved, “He will not allow himself to be helped but has conceded to follow whichever fate you choose. I... it is not a choice to taken lightly, but please don’t tarry, for his sake.”

“We will do it,” Curufin spoke up. He paid no heed to the stared that stares leveled his way, instead he turned to Maedhros, “We have to don’t we? What use is there debating it?"

Maedhros sighed so deeply him might have dissipated himself into dust. But he nodded and all at once Caranthir’s grip on eternity pitched once again. He had half a mind to resist it. He did not have to agree to this deal that he had not hand in shaping or bargaining. There were too many loop holes that could be explored and exploited both ways. But a familiar heaviness gripped him and turned his tongue to lead. He could not risk Elrond recinding his offer by asking too many questions.

The smile on the half elf’s face was drenched with relief. If he didn’t know better Caranthir would have thought the lantern itself shone brighter at the news. He couldn’t fathom why. His head hurt, so little has happened for so long, for everything he knew to change once more! But to be free... Such hope was as sharp as a knife pericing the depths of his fea. He tore it out and shook his head. Free to do what?

[paxopalotls]

The fanfictions are infecting me with brainrot oh my god have some au doodles before I explode

[ffverr]

Ffverr Presents: X-Corp!

A HUGE thanks to my darling friends who made this insanity with me!! I love ya guys💜 @quilledge @quicks1lver-stuff @mkaystinks @caelumsthelimit @telepathlover

[shirojikimattari]

Banned from Umbrella

The Shadowheart nun AU is getting out of hand in the server and I intend to do nothing about it.

As the saying goes: It takes a server to raise a blasphemous AU.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 38

Jaskier has kept a secret for years. The ring with dandelions carved into it that he wears every second of every day is the only thing keeping him from turning into ash. He sleeps with a lovely woman one night, desperately trying to move on from Geralt (it doesn't work, he is still very much in love with his best friend) only to awake in the morning and find- FUCK She stole his ring! That conniving little-! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What does he do!? He races to the mirror and it confirms his worst fear. The glamour the ring gives him is gone. He can't see his reflection. He reaches a hand up to his mouth and feels his fangs. No- Nonono! Then his worst fucking nightmare ON TOP of his worst nightmare happens. He hears the stomping footsteps of a witcher approaching their room. Godsdamn it all. He hears the doorknob jiggle and.. Alright, he'll be the first to admit it, he panics. "DON'T COME IN, GERALT" The doorknob jiggling pauses. "Jaskier? Are you alright?" "Y- YES! Perfectly peachy! Don't come in!" Jaskier rushes around the room, pacing in panicked circles like a caged beast. He was a caged beast. He reaches to close the curtains of the only window in the room and like an idiot, he fumbles in place and ends up with his hand in the direct sunlight. He shrieks in pain and holds his hand to his chest. Geralt, scenting agony and hearing Jaskier yell, barges in without another moment of thought. Only to see Jaskier scrambling away from him in fear. In all his years of knowing Jaskier, he has NEVER been afraid of him. It physically pains Geralt to see it now. He doesn't understand why he wasn't allowed in. There's no lover of Jaskier's hiding in a corner embarrassed at being caught, Jaskier isn't indecent or anything, so why-? Then he looks at Jaskier, truly looks at him, and sees his blue eyes are glowing, and his mouth - Parted open as he pants - reveals fangs. Geralt's eyes dart to Jaskier's neck and it's confirmed. The worst part of it all, is the way Jaskier's eyes keep glancing between the door out of the room, and Geralt's silver sword. Geralt is infuriated. Not only did the woman Jaskier take to bed last night turn Jaskier into a vampire, but she also made Jaskier fear Geralt because of it. When Geralt says he isn't going to harm (let alone KILL like Jaskier had feared) Jaskier for the twentieth time, Jaskier finally believes him, and begs him to help him track the woman down. Geralt is intent on killing the vampire that ruined poor young human Jaskier's life. Jaskier is intent on getting his human-glamour, sunlight-immunity-enchantment ring back from this human he slept with, so he can go back to pretending he's human, like he has been doing for the past hundred or so years.

[astudyincontrasts]

Penance IX (redux)

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (nsfw)

A/N: Its my birthday! Last year everyone in this fandom and all the friends I have made because of it made today one of the most special birthdays I have had in a long time. I felt more loved and surrounded in celebration with sweet friends then I had in years, and the cup of that happiness has not stopped running over. There are not enough ways to express my love and gratitude for everyone I've had the joy of meeting here.

So this year, I wanted to offer a gift to all of you. Everyone has been exceedingly patient about my writing struggles to continue Penance, so I'd like to give you the alternate Penance XI chapter- blood I have managed to wring from that stone of writers block. The fate of the continuation of this story may still be up in the air until inspiration comes knocking again, but at least I can share this with you today.

To all my fandom friends, and everyone who has been so supportive of this silly little smutty story. You have my heart.

This picks up after Chapter VIII

“Girl, are you listening?”

Sister Marta’s sharply scolding voice brought you back down to earth with a little jerk, blinking as you turned attention back to the tall, thin, sallow faced nun to meet the exasperated gaze of her cataract-hazed grey eyes.

“Sorry Sister.”  You mumbled, casting about for a context clue of whatever it was she might have been speaking about while you’d been off daydreaming about the priest of her parish.  Nothing jumped out at you in the dusty old store room of the basement where you both stood in the dim light of one naked and straining lightbulb still swinging gently upon its cord from the nun’s yank of its chain a moment before.

You hadn’t meant to drift off, but it had been four days since you’d seen Father Silco last and that painful, sweet contrition you’d done across the desk of his office was still fresh in your mind as if it had just happened.  You ought to have been angry at the fact he’d left you such an unsatisfied mess, and the fact he’d spanked you like a wicked child, in spite of his promise he’d never hurt you as they had back in school.

Truly, he had not.  Those sharp little slaps of his open hand were nothing compared to the cruelty of a sharp ruler across knuckles or the backs of thighs delivered by an angry, bitter nun.  You smiled faintly at Sister Marta’s increasingly irritated, withered old face and privately thought perhaps she could teach the Father a few things about corporal punishment.

“The candles, girl!”  Sister Marta exhorted at last, the thin limit of her patience snapping.

Unlike the ‘my child’ diminutive that the other nuns like Sister Eleanor or Sister Angelica were so fond of using with you and other parishioners, Sister Marta had no use for any such hollow faithful endearments.  You hadn’t yet made up your mind if it was an honest gruffness about her you liked, or an insulting mein you did not.  You had the notion it would have hardly mattered to the old woman either way.

She nudged one of the pair of low boxes with the toe of her sensible black shoe from under her long, dark habit.

“Take them to the Father to be blessed and then kindly refill the votive stands.  You can remove the spent ones and toss them.”  She explained, slower this time as if she was speaking to a simpleton.

You bore it with a tight little smile and bent to lift the box on top, surprised by the weight of it, staggering a bit upon rising only to catch a smugly satisfied look on the wrinkled old pucker of a face before Sister Marta reached up to pull the chain of the light and leave you to struggle out the door of the closet and back up the rickety old stairs of the basement in the dark, save for the light from the open door at the top of the steps.

Quietly you wondered if you accidentally fell and broke your neck, if the church would have their endowment free of the burden of your presence that came with it.

Cold comfort, knowing you’d crush the brittle bird-boned old woman climbing up, wheezing softly behind you, and take her with you if you did pitch backward down the steps.

The real trial wasn’t making it to the top of the stairs with the heavy box full of candles, though.  No, that one still lay ahead once you’d reached the top without incident.  The real trial lay in taking that armload into the rectory to face Father Silco once more and ask his blessing.

You’d thought you’d be safe if you came on a Thursday.  You’d avoided the parish planning committee on Monday, as well as your usual Wednesday session with the Father.  You’d hardly doubted you’d be missed at the planning meeting, and Wednesday, well.  You’d chosen to skip it half in a little act of spite, half just to see what might happen.  When no scolding phone call or visit had been forthcoming after shirking both of those commitments the victory felt hollow.  

Turning up to make yourself useful to the nuns on Thursday seemed like a good way to cover for your failed gambit and to keep from looking as if you were avoiding the church.  Foolishly, you’d thought perhaps you’d manage to skim by with just catching a glimpse of Father Silco in passing.  

Unsure if it was because you wanted to see him, or wanted him to see you.

You’d been on rocky footing ever since your little transgression in the confessional, and you knew it.  

The door to the rectory lay open just across from the basement door in the open nave of the large narthex, and you waited until Sister Marta crested the steps behind you and shut the basement door to hobble off heavily upon her cane, before you started the slow walk toward his office.  You didn’t let yourself hesitate in the doorway, and didn’t have a free hand to knock on the open door with anyway.  Instead, summoning all the calm composure you could muster, you simply walked in and paused before his desk.

He sat there, scribbling away in an open book, papers and letters and other books opened in a slightly scattered mess about his work, dark head bent and eyepatch on.  He left you standing there until he’d finished what he was writing. Until your elbows and wrists had begun to ache a little from the weight of the box you held.  Only then he sat back, letting his pen drop upon the desk as elbows found the armrests of his tall-backed chair and he turned the cool glint of that duplicitously calm ocean colored eye upward.

The thin, scarred cut of his mouth tugged a hint of a smile at one corner.

“Lamb.”  He stated mildly, as if unsurprised in the least to see you there and only half interested as to what you might want with him.

Infuriating, how badly you liked hearing that little endearment again.  How flustered it made you feel to get hooked on the edge of that smile.

The box shifted heavily in your hands as you juggled its weight and stepped forward to set it upon his desk.  Damn his paperwork.  

“Sister Marta asked if you’d bless these candles so I could put them in the votive holders.”  Your attempt to keep your voice as even and disaffected as possible only resulted in it coming out far softer than you’d meant for it to be.

Leaning forward a touch, Silco flipped one of the flaps of the cardboard lid back to glance at the candles inside with a little hum.  One by one he folded each of the other three flaps back and rose to his feet.  Elegant fingers stroked absently along the edge of one packaging dividers hashed between the votives within before he plucked a single candle out and set it aside.

Letting that cool eye of his drift shut he made the sign of the cross over the open box of remaining candles before opening both hands before himself, palms cupped upward.

“Lord Jesus Christ, true light that enlightens every man who comes into this world, bestow thy blessing upon these candles, and sanctify them with the light of thy grace. As these tapers burn with visible fire and dispel the darkness of night, so may our hearts with the help of thy grace be enlightened by the invisible fire of the splendor of the Holy Ghost, and may be free from all blindness of sin.”  

His eye opened and fell upon you, and suddenly you were profoundly aware of how you just stood there, staring at the tall, lean lines of him in that dark cassock, soaking in the sound of his voice and very obviously not with your hands folded in reverent prayer or eyes downcast as they ought to have been. Something entirely ungodly flickered at the edge of Father Silco’s mouth as he continued on, holding your immobilized gaze. 

“Clarify the eyes of our minds that we may see what is pleasing to thee and conducive to our salvation. After the dark perils of this life let us be worthy to reach the eternal light.”  His eye closed once more and again he made the sign of the cross over the box as he finished, “Through thee, Jesus Christ, Savior of the world, who in perfect Trinity livest and reignest, God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

His hands lowered, one coming to settle over the glass edge of the candle he’d set to one side, and he considered you as you crossed yourself hastily and reached forward to gather the box back up again.  He stopped you lifting it with a touch of the fingertips to its lid.

“When you are through with these, perhaps you’d come back here?”  Couched so carefully as a question, yet all you could hear was the quiet order in it.  Come back here.  Your head was nodding before he even finished speaking and the thin, dark brow not covered by his eyepatch quirked slightly.

“Yes, Father.” Your correction of yourself came nearly automatically.

Another little humming assent and with a slow blink he removed the touch that had stopped you lifting the box, resuming his seat.  You hoped he’d resume his work as well, but instead he sat there, watching you go, fingertips drumming thoughtfully upon the little glass votive.

You took your time with the candles, mostly because your hands were shaking and the very last thing you wanted to do was drop one of the blessed things and have it shatter across the church floor.  But also, to give you time to scrape yourself together, collect calm and poise.  It was no good, heart hammering anticipation equal parts nervousness and excitement.  The part of yourself that had wanted so badly to keep up this little charade of wishing to avoid him had succumbed without so much as a whimper.

Again thoughts drifted back to Sunday.  To the stinging warmth of skin under his hand, to how he’d teased you to a sodden mess without once slipping fingers beneath the barrier of cotton that had separated you.  To how he’d left you wanting and writhing and nearly in tears.  A perfect act of contrition, indeed.

It was a struggle not to let yourself wonder what next punishment he could possibly have in store for you.

Spent votives replaced with fresh ones, and the box filled with the clatter of the empty candleholders, you made your way back to his office.  Dropping the detritus of other people’s prayers off in the dumpster out back could wait.  You had your own worship to attend to.  

Father Silco’s desk was far less littered with papers when you returned, open books stacked neatly to one side now and everything else put away save for the book he was still writing in.  And that little candle he’d taken.  His dark head didn’t even lift as you set the softly clattering box down upon the settee against the wall.

“Office hours are over.”  He intoned flatly as you wiped palms nervously over the skirt of the dress covering your thighs.  

It froze you, cold like ice water suddenly filling the pit of your belly.  Had he just dismissed you after ordering you to return?  

“...Father?”  It came out a strangled little question and you almost hated how needy the note of your voice made that singular word.

He glanced up and you realized with a start that he’d removed that eyepatch, the hellish orange-red fire of his darkened eye a constant little shock every single time.  Ruined eye and teal flicked from you to the door and back again as if in blatant explanation.

“Lock the door.”  He elaborated.

It should not have been a matter of pride that you managed to turn and do his bidding without falling all over yourself or scrambling in an embarrassing rush of eagerness, and yet.  Far more collected than you felt within, you managed to push the door shut soundlessly and throw the latch, pausing for a moment with your back to him, safely sheltered in the little alcove of the doorway, to breathe through the easing of that sudden cold panic that had surfaced at your earlier misunderstanding.

When you returned to him he’d shut his notebook and set it aside atop the others, and reached to slide that pilfered votive candle before himself as he watched you sidle up to his desk.  Watched you stop, smooth the skirt of your dress only to fist it again in fitful hands, watched the tight little press of thighs as he drew out the silence.

“Do you know what these are called?”  He asked, nudging the little candle forward with the press of one elegant fingertip before rising from his seat.

“Devotionaries.”  You answered, and watched him cross to the wall to the right of you, to a tall coat stand that stood near the door to his quarters.  

“Very good.”  

A child could have answered that question, but it did not stop the little smile of pleasure that tugged at the corners of your mouth.  His praise as euphoric as a drug and twice as addictive, even for the smallest of successes.

Your mouth went dry however, as he turned profile to you, tugged a button or two open upon the throat of his cassock, and then turned his back to undo the rest before shrugging out of the long, dark cloth to hang it upon the coat stand.  The black fabric fell in a long and shapeless mass without him, hem puddling ever so slightly on the floor.  

It put you in mind of Peter Pan hanging up his shadow, or it would have done, had you not been so preoccupied with the shape of him divested of the dark habit.  Of that petulant posture and taut lovely lines, proud set of shoulders and careless, dangerous beauty in how he moved.  It was patently unfair that a man sporting licks of sliver at his temples and etched crows feet at the outset edges of his eye should have the lithe shape of youth the way he did.  

Devoid of the cassock, he was left instead in the black roman-collared linen shirt and dark, sharply pleated trousers he wore beneath. 

He turned back to you and came wandering back toward the desk, unbuttoning the cuffs at his wrists.

“Do you have a lighter?”  The question was so casual it caught you off guard and you had to shake your head, tugging at the pocketless skirt of your dress on either side of thighs by way of explanation.  

His mouth twisted the merest fraction of a smile as he tucked the cuff of one of his sleeves back, began rolling it neatly toward his elbow.  Lean hips turned a fraction as he stepped closer.

“Left pocket.”  He instructed, helpfully.

Hesitation grasped you but a moment before you inched forward, stepped into his space and paused.  Glancing upward, you found his attention fixed upon meticulously still folding his sleeves back, crisp turn by turn.  The focus of those mismatched eyes not even flickering to you, to how every fine hair upon your bare arms stood on end like they were aching toward him, toward that magnetic draw of snapping static thrumming in the air between you both.

Easing half behind him, you reached for the little gap of the pocket and slowly slid fingers into the warmth of its silken confines.  Over the bone of his hip and down, wrist deep until you hit the bottom of the pocket and touched the smooth, rectangular shape of the lighter within.  Metal heated to body temperature from where it nestled.  

Fingers curled around it before you stopped.  Let it go, and moved just a little closer, pressed fingers flat to that join between hip and thigh his pocket lay against.  Pushed the delve of that pocket just a little deeper and felt his stomach tense beneath your fingertips as your cheek brushed the outside of his upper arm.

“The lighter, lamb.  If you please.”  His tone was darkly amused at least, though if you kept pushing your luck it would be at your own cost.  That much was clear.

You scooped up the lighter once more, but withdrew your hand slow, knuckles grazing softly along the cut of muscle you could feel running from his hip inward and down.  Air felt unwelcomely cold against your skin once you pulled your hand free, and before you could step back, he moved away for you.  Walked away to resume his seat behind the desk as he finished doing up his other cuff to just below his right elbow.

A small push of his foot made space between the seat and the desk, and you only needed the flick of his eyes from you to the room he’d made to set you in motion to come and stand before him, his lighter clenched tight in your closed fist, unwilling to relinquish the little bit of his heat you held in your palm.

Gazing up at you, his attention licked over the details of your dress, your posture, your hesitant composure, as he tugged at the give of trousers a little at the bend of thigh and hip and settled himself more comfortably.

“You weren’t here yesterday.”  He observed as he relaxed back against the tall chair, a flicker of a blink over that oceanic eye.  You held your tongue and his gaze fell to the candle upon the desk just beside where you stood, and you wondered if your absence had made him angry, filled him with regret, or perhaps just left him lonesome.  You wished there was a way to tell, any little crack in that stoic mask of scarred features and sharpness to let the truth of what he was thinking seep out.  Nothing there though but that calculating, penetrating gaze and a subtle shrug of broad, lean shoulders,  “I suppose we might make up for lost time, then.  Contrition may be an important facet of faith, but so is devotion.”

He reached forward to scoop into fingers the loose end of the bow that tied the wrap of your dress shut beside your waist.  His good eye narrowed, the fine lines of crowsfoot deepening.  He’d seen that dress before, yes– the same one you’d worn to catch him by surprise in the confessional.  

You allowed yourself the most innocent little smile you could manage when those mismatched eyes flicked sharply to your face, and willed breath to stay even, slow, no matter how skin had begun to sing his name in soft coursing waves of prickling goosebumps.

“I don’t suppose you have your rosary?”  He asked archly, letting the ribbon of the bow drop from his open hand as he sat back once more.

He’d every right to ask it of you so dryly, given your lack of pockets.  And you had every right to feel as smug as you did when you lifted a hand, reached into the low, criss-crossed neckline of your dress and drew out the strand of little purple beads from the nestle of your bra.  

The war between shock, dark delight, the struggle to keep his poker face, and perhaps even a hint of righteous outrage that overtook the sharply handsome ruin of his features was nothing short of spectacular.  You’d replay it, over and over again at night.  Reveling in how well you toppled the high and mighty cold ivory pillar he so often perched upon.

Out and out you drew the beads until the little cross popped free and the rosary hung, swinging, upon your forefinger.

His hand, resting upon his knee, tightened, fingers twitching slightly, before it stilled, then lifted, palm open in demand.

You dropped that little holy object into his hand and watched his fist close around it, knowing full well he now held a little piece of your heat as surely as you held his within your other hand.  There was a slight softening to the creases where thin brows met over that sharp nose that told you he felt it, too.

“Good girl.”  He murmured, and the flush that crept up to warm your ears was nearly as delicious as the thrill that both chased up your spine and tugged at the backs of your knees to fold, to kneel.  You rested the heel of your palm upon the desk behind you and let it take your weight so that you did not cave.

By the time he turned his face back up to you he’d mastered his expression once more, beatific calm singed at its hard edges.

“Turn around,”  He instructed, making the simple order sound heavy, dangerous.  Bringing thighs together from their slight sprawl, he patted the top of one, “Have a seat.”

Heart thudded hard in your ears as you did as you were bade, turning to sink onto his lap carefully, perched upon his knees.  He sucked chipped teeth softly at it.

“Have a seat,”  That grit velvet voice scolded gently from behind you as both his hands curled about your waist and urged you backward, until you sat comfortably fully upon him, back fitted to his front.  

A hand upon your hip skimmed over stomach and waist, back to the bow of your dress.

“Why do we say devotions?”  He asked, and you could feel the question purring through his chest against your back as he claimed the thick ribbon of the bow and tugged.  The knot gave with no resistance, and the part of it he held served nicely to pull the cross of your dress open, just enough to part the skirt of it and leave you bare from stomach to thighs.  

The shudder that overtook you was sweet and slow, wringing from core to limbs, leaving a little shivering tingle rising over scalp and curling toes, that familiar little throbbing ache back with a hot and hungry vengeance.  Hips shifted in your seat as his fingertips ghosted skin to part fabric and push it aside, leaving your lower half bare save for the dark, smooth satin of underwear in the same shade of inky black as his habit.

“To remember the dead?”  You chanced, feeling halfway there yourself, pulse racing erratically.

“Sometimes,” He agreed, and you swore you felt the whisper of scarred lips at your neck.  Certainly felt the wash of warm breath plume over skin, “More generally devotions are an act of prayer or private worship.  Remembrance is one act, as are service, reflection, beseeching, prostration… your rosary, for example, is considered a devotion.”

His hands slid along your arms, touch warm, bringing your hands together to press in prayer before he began to wind the beaded strings around your wrists again to bind them together.

“I thought that was a penance.”  You exhaled in a shuddering little rasp.

“It can be, but not today.”  The tip of his sharp nose drew a long, slow line against the rise of your spine, above the neckline of your dress between shoulder blades and to the base of your skull, “although that can be a devotion too.”

The heel of his foot caught the floor and pulled the seat with you both in it forward towards his desk, so that he could reach around you and lift the candle from where it sat before pushing you both back again.  He held the votive before you.

“Light it,” he asked, free arm curling about you, fingers trailing the soft of your stomach from navel on down, “I owe you a devotion, lamb.”

Fingers bound in prayer fumbled with the thick golden rectangle of the lighter as you struggled not to simply sink back against him with a little shiver and beg that he stroke that little path across vulnerable skin once more.  A flick of your thumb sent the hinged lid open and the circular little flint struck on the second attempt, hot flame bursting to life.  Silco turned the candle so that you could light it and then pulled it away as you flicked the lighter shut and slipped it back between folded hands.

“Do you know the devotional prayer?” He asked, hand holding the candle coming to settle upon an armrest as his lap shifted beneath you, lean legs pressing together beneath your own and lifting before spreading wide, the hook of his knees beneath your thighs opening them in an indecent slow splay.  

It set you writhing; the kissing chill of the air of the room contrasting sharply with the heat of him beneath you, so very bare, bound in his lap, spread open like an invitation.  The door was locked, yes, you’d made sure of it but what if you were wrong?  What if someone had a key?  There’d be no explanation for the position you found yourself in, no way to hide.

The thrill of that little licking fear warred with the light caress of his free hand as it curled over the top of one thigh and smoothed toward your knee, only to hook it better in its drape over his own before it began the slow teasing, lazy circles that drew it back toward the little throbbing want hidden beneath the black satin gusset of thin panties.

“Bare legs.”  He murmured, and you gave another little squirm, folded hands pressing together tighter.  You’d not worn what you were coming to suspect was his favorite item of your clothing because you’d not expected to see him, and also to spite him if you did.  The move seemed to have backfired spectacularly.  When you had no excuse or answer, Father Silco simply carried on, a note of pleased amusement in his tone, “The prayer?”

“N-no.  That is, no I don’t know it.”

“Hmn.”  His little hum of disapproval at the gaps still existing in your liturgical knowledge colored your cheeks, and you could only hope that from his position he could not see the frustration that joined the embarrassment upon your face.  

You watched him lift the candle slowly from where he’d held it at your side, bring it to hover over your open lap.  His hand upon your thigh stilled its toying little strokes and instead closed in a taut grip of your leg, soft skin denting tenderly beneath his fingers.

“That’s alright,” he reassured you quietly, and you could hear the dark little smile in it, “This is my devotion anyhow.”

The flickering little candle he held hovering before you began to tilt, turn, and the inward gasp of breath caught in your throat as the clear melted wax welled at the lip of the red glass before spilling over, heat spattering in a little drip against the sensitive skin of your knee.  

He paused, and you could feel him shift under your restless hips, feel the little roll of his own and the way his breath strained ever so slightly for just a moment.

“Does that hurt?”  Low and velvet that voice mumbled up against the skin behind the fold of your ear and again he tipped a little burning drop of wax onto waiting skin.  

Your knee jumped the barest fraction, reflexive little jerk at the soft scalding that faded quickly into gentle warmth, and you nodded, folded hands pressing the knuckles of forefingers tight to your lips.

“A little.”  You breathed, raggedly.

“Enough to stop?”  He pressed, and the soft moan of a sigh that broke from you when the warmth of his mouth touched to the hard thrum of your pulse answered well enough for you before your shattered little ‘no’ eked out.

His fingers had strayed far up the leg they’d been casually toying across, toward the heat that he had to feel absolutely radiating from the apex of thighs.  One long forefinger drew a tracing line around the triangle of slippery black satin, up both edges and across your lower stomach slowly.

Air seized in your throat as his fingertips plucked at the smooth waistband.

“Lord, may this candle which I light illuminate all my difficulties and decisions.”  Silco began, waiting to feel the tension stringing through you begin to ease before he spilled another dollop of wax, and then a second and third a bit further up each time.  The soft sting of it had you writhing, the little shock of burning heat fading to a warm tickle as the wax rolled down in heavy drips, cooling against your skin.

Behind you, Silco’s breath caught in a little huff once more, a soft whistle between clenched chipped teeth on the inhale.

“May this candle be a fire,”  He continued after a beat, spreading the warm little shocks and sudden pinching stings to the tender inner thigh of your other leg, “that burns away all my pride, selfishness…” 

Writhing and shifting, you struggled in his lap, not wanting to escape yet fighting the way every fibre of you recoiled from the spattering searing sting of the wax in a reflexive, uncontrollable urge.  Several of these squirming jerks of your hips and the hand teasing at the edge of your panties caught suddenly in a taut cup between your legs as you felt Silco’s own hips give a hard little shove upward.  

Stilling breathlessly, he kept you waiting a long moment while he seemed to struggle to master himself, the fingers cupping you picking up an almost absent little up and down stroke over the satin covering the shape of your sex, unerringly finding the cleft between lips.  

Cooling wax flexed and tugged at skin as you tried to spread a bit further for him, to press into his touch, scared if you were to beg for more with words that it might stop the tease entirely, as it had the last time he’d had his hand between your thighs.  God, how he’d tormented you, brought you so terribly close… Hips rolled hard and slow against him in retaliation as you relived your humiliation.

As if reading your mind, his touch skimmed higher, and fingertips tucked themselves beneath the satin confines of the upper edge of panties, teasing little strokes at skin that tensed and trembled beneath his touch before they began to slip lower, “and all my other sins.” 

Wax was flowing freely, dripping to punctuate each word, taking his sweet time as you wriggled and bucked in his lap, swallowing little gasps and hisses as your skin sang.

At least one shift of your hips must have caught him just right because for a moment you could hear him choke on his words, feel him tense beneath you again.  Determined to give as good as you got you did it again and felt the rush of his breath fan against your neck.

His free hand tensed where it lay, fingertips so tremulously close to the cleft of lips, and delved to catch a second taut grip over the shape of your bare sex.  The sudden hard grasp of naked contact had you spiraling, arching hard back against him.  He was hard beneath you, you could feel it, and caught between his hand and that hint of hardness digging into the soft of your bottom you rocked slowly, only to be rewarded with a long pour of hot wax up your thigh that turned the gentle motion of hips to a wild little ride.

“May this candle be a flame,” He continued, and the broken rasp of his voice was nearly, nearly as sweet as the single slow caress of his finger that found the slick part of your folds and pressed between slippery skin to drag upward.  Unerringly found the proud, eager little swell of your clit and sent your lower back into a hard strung arch with one little nudge, “that warms my heart and incites me to love.”  He concluded, raggedly, and you swore you felt the graze of chipped teeth scrape over your shoulder.

Riding the light touch of his fingertip and behind you, the hard press of his cock through his pants and your open dress, you sprawled redolently back against him, let your neck find a home in a comfortable arch over his shoulder before turning your head, nestling forehead in the hollow of his throat before shifting to tuck a begging little kiss to the sharp of his jaw.

“Amen.”  You finished for him, and felt the sting of wax hit your hip and then your stomach that made you hiss and buck hips once more.  Your reward a groan of breath from him and another lingering stroke of his fingertips through soaked folds to flick caressingly at the sweet throbbing ache of your clit.

How long, how many bitter nights now had you wished for this, how many feverish and filthy dreams had you endured, just longing to feel his bare touch?  It had become so much worse after your last meeting, all that sharp longing redoubled after his heartless punishing teasing.

No more, no more thin cotton or sheer lace or anything at all between his touch and you.  The heat of his hand was nothing to the splashes of searing wax you’d endured, yet it was so much sweeter.  That little flicking touch came ghosting over the sensitive little nub of your clit and you writhed unashamedly, trying every which way to force his touch more, closer, deeper.

The prayer was far too short for your liking.  What good were hollow words meant to convey something as strong and fervent an ideal as devotion if they were over in mere minutes?  Grumbling a little whinging protest you pushed back against him with a hard roll of hips.

“Father…” You objected, voice cracked with pleading.

“Who?”  The grit dark velvet of his voice asked at your ear, delighted and tormented as the devil himself.

“Daddy.”  The word was out before you could even think it, like it teetered perpetually on the edge of your teeth ever since the first time he prised it out of you,  “P-please, please, daddy…”

The sharp blade of his nose shoved hard behind your ear, his ragged breathing a hushed tickling whuffle from narrow nostrils, and any further pleading you were on the verge of was stifled with a squealed little gasp as he spread the sodden petals of your pussy with the splay of three fingers, and the center one of those long, elegant digits found its way down between slicking folds, delving deep into the welcoming clenching grip of your want… only to withdraw his entire hand in a long, slow drag, tracing a line of accusatory wet all the way up to the dip of your navel.

It left you sobbing tearlessly, gasping and gulping and lifting hips in a wordless eagerness that only earned you another splattering of scalding wax across the strain of thighs.

Father Silco ignored your plight as steadfastly as any man of the cloth could ignore temptation, and began a new prayer.

“Earnestly I seek you;

I thirst for you,

    my whole being longs for you,

in a dry and parched land

    where there is no water.”

The psalm he recited washed over you like a slow caress while you squirmed fitfully on his lap and watched his hand lift, middle finger glossed to its base with your wet.  Vanishing in your periphery, the sound of him sucking that long digit thoughtfully clean acted perfect punctuation to the sacrilege of his misappropriated prayer.  

Guilt spiced the edge of half-denied pleasure and soft pain.  As his hand slid back down your skin and toward the clenching, shivering yearning of your core, you’d never felt so debased, so deeply wicked and wrong.  Burning wax hit your thigh once more in heavy, rolling drops and you arched, straining, hissing between clenched teeth; become more serpent in the garden of Eden than Eve.

“I have seen you in the sanctuary

    and beheld your power and your glory.

Because your love is better than life,

    my lips will glorify you.”

He teased the upper edge of soaked panties once more, tracing the pucker of their hem, slipping fingertips just beneath them, savoring the softness of skin and the way the taut of your stomach quivered beneath his touch.  Desire welled like a dark stone filling your throat, heart coated in the sticky sap of filthy blasphemous sin as his scarred mouth tickled at the hook of your jaw and tender line of your throat.  This was wrong, so wrong, so deliciously perfectly throbbingly wrong.

Heat flooded your face as you crushed the press of prayer folded hands to your forehead, eyes shut tight against the rushing high of mortifying lust.  Forbidden, taboo, illicit; whatever you wanted to call that gut-deep and undisputed knowledge that this was unforgivably wrong, it excited you in a way nothing else ever had.

He could see it in you, you knew he could.  He saw how horrible your deepest darkest thoughts could be and he just kept dragging them out into the light, smiling as he let you dirty yourself with the honesty of your predilections.  

The line of his arm tightened against your side as he reached to slip fingers back into your heat, another lazy circling tease to against clit that left you wrung out and breathless before he delved back inside of you and let you ride the slow pumping slide of one long finger.

“I will praise you as long as I live,

    and in your name I will lift up my hands.

 I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;

    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.”

Your head rocked as he butted his forehead gently to your temple, words a warm, seeping whisper at your cheek, that stern, gravel worn seduction of his voice undoing you, taking you apart at the seams until you felt sure you’d fall open there in his lap like a ragdoll with the sin-like sawdust spilled out.

Inside of you, he was inside of you- and just that knowledge, just the wretchedly wonderful wrongness of it made the whole of you jerk in a taut little shiver of surrender.  That slender artful finger kept up its torment like he had no notion of your mortal struggle; curling, thrusting, buried deep.  It had you in a tailspin, hips working devoid of conscious thought, all sensation dialed down to the hard, hot, fluttering building to a crescendo within.  Greed, gluttony, lust… were they called deadly sins because you felt fit to die if you did not satisfy each one right this moment?  

The stinging pain of the wax he kept dripping in erratic little patterns jerked you from the sinking, seeping pit of ecstatic bliss over and over again, a cruel and wonderful see-saw that kept you gripping white-knuckled on the sharp edge of insensible pleasure.

“On my bed I remember you;

    I think of you through the watches of the night.

Because you are my help,

    I sing in the shadow of your wings.

I cling to you;

    your right hand upholds me.”

His right hand was all that stood between you and heaven; the grinding press of the heel of his palm to the throb of your clit, the smooth slow fucking his single finger was giving you, all of it an overwhelming agony of delight but just shy of what you needed to crest the rising wave of tense bliss he was intent on drowning you with.

Head tossed back, you groaned that little, broken, sordid version of his holy title once more, hands bound at the wrists with your rosary clenched in fervent prayer to your chest that he’d let you come, please God just let you come... 

And with that one word, beneath you Father Silco went suddenly still and rigid, something like a strangled gasp caught in his throat as hips pinned under your writhing ones jerked their own stilted thrust upward… and held for a long and breathless moment before you felt him sag with a rushing, panting release.  His hand cupped to you had gone quite still, and you could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Had he… had he just…?  You shifted hips experimentally and heard him hiss a wordless scolding as his hand gripped the shape of your pussy hard.  Stilling obediently, you had to struggle not to smile sinful bliss.  

Just a little touch of you combined with the friction of your hips working in his lap and he’d cum those dark, well tailored pants of his.

In spite of being robbed of your own relief, for the moment you felt nothing but powerful, smug and heady with the evidence of how your infatuation was not one-sided, just as you had in the confessional, and it made you foolishly proud.

Proud, right up to the point when he withdrew his finger from within you and in the space of a half second, just before your mouth could open in complaint, caught a little pinch of your clit between thumb and middle finger only to assault that overstimulated cluster of slick nerves with his forefinger in such lashing that you pitched clean into the waiting arms of your release.  

It was hard and fast, unmerciful, the lovely strain nearly ruined by how long he’d kept you waiting and how hard he’d teased you up to it.  

“Amen.”  He was purring in your ear, voice near drowned out by the hard thrumming pound of blood rushing in your brain.  Thighs shivered in their hook over top of his own, gone weak as every ounce of tension bled out of you, leaving you lolling, warmly pliant and sighing devoutness far more fervent than any stale saint could have possibly understood. 

There was a little click of glass as he set the remains of the candle back upon his desk and turned your face toward himself where your head lay back upon his shoulder.  Fingers traced the curve of your cheek, and when he licked at the open part of your lips the faint taste of yourself mingled with him lingered.  Bless me father, for I have sinned.  

Profane and perfect, you felt his smile stretch against your mouth.  

“Do you doubt my devotion, lamb?”  He asked quietly, hands smoothing away the cooled and peeling wax in long strokes that left gently welted and red splotched skin stinging sweetly.  

Your head shook infinitesimally, not wanting to break the scant contact of his mouth to your own.

“Do you pray for me, Father?”  The urge to know felt crushing, the weight of guilt creeping in to gnaw at the edges of sordid bliss.

“Oh lamb.  You’re the only thing I pray for anymore.”

[c0gito]

OKAYY WE’RE KINDA COOKING HERE?! They’re actually consuming my mind I need to come up with an au name…

in reference to this post

[m-u-n-c-h-y]

Date night with the boys~

Penance belongs to @cosmic-darikano

[justastrugglinghotchocolate]

This is the beginning of the book/The Losing Game Dorian. Everything in his design is meant to emphasize his youth—I actually used fashion plates from the Met of victorian boys clothing as reference for his outfit here.

Dorian, unlike Basil, effortlessly sticks out and doesn’t mind it. Regardless of if he wears what everyone else does or if he chooses to experiment, he is simply eye-catching. I hinted at this with the simple splash of blue on his bowtie, which also adds to his more childish nature.

I’ve said it before, but I do not blame Dorian at the beginning of the book for any of the shit that happened to him. He was a mentally still a teenager and was taken advantage of. I’m going with ‘Henry does a dumb thing because being a toxic ex was on his 1890 bingo card’ version of events for my modern reimaging au. My version of Henry knowingly used Dorian to get back at Basil. In particular, he fully lead Dorian on—having had no interest in him outside of fucking with Basil which just messed up Dorian even more. He was absolutely devasted once he discovered that.

In lighter news, TLG Dorian avoided corruption from Henry because he has somewhat of an attention deficit and when Henry was talking about youth and stuff, he was hyper focused on the bumblebee in the garden. This resulted in him catching like 15% of what Henry said and assuming Henry was saying art lasts forever and therefore he (Dorian) should be a composer. Henry was too stunned to speak. Dorian took that as confirmation he was right XD

[nonas-third-tantrum]

Re: TLT x twitter- How many followers does everyone have at this point? I feel like Harrow has a lot, entirely against her will

good question! i did make a follower count post at one point, which you can find here, but apparently that was all the way back in february so an update is definitely warranted! this got out of hand so warning: long post ahead

gideon - 1100 followers on her private account, 3500 on her public account. she lost followers on the public account for accidentally retweeting risque art. she'll claim that the steep decline in new followers is because she locked her account and is more judicious in accepting follow requests, but in reality she wasn't consistently funny enough to gain new followers.

harrow - 11 followers (gideon, pal, cam, magnus, abigail, dulcinea, pyrrha, nona, coronabeth, ianthe, john). she would have a lot more but she blocks everyone who tries. she and ianthe are not mutuals.

palamedes (official) - well over 5k due to the popularity of the fake account, but steadily declining as followers get tired of his endless academic threads.

palamedes (sexpal69) - a good 7k, despite the fact that this account has not tweeted in months. followers hold out hope.

camilla - even fewer than harrow. unlike harrow, she just denies follow requests instead of blocking them. some speculate that she has a secret account where she posts thirst traps

pyrrha - a healthy 400 on her main account, an undisclosed number on her private account. cam and pal follow the private account, but they will neither confirm nor deny what she posts on there

ianthe - more than harrow, but not much more. definitely a few bots in there. a few thousand on her official Crown Prince account, but many of those followers insist they never followed her and are unable to unfollow.

john - everyone automatically follows him when they make an account. this is irreversible and the most frequently reported bug

coronabeth - 10k and counting. she's 100% running a pyramid scheme but who's gonna stop her?

abigail and magnus - abigail has more followers, but magnus doesn't mind. he's so proud of his wife (she has 200 followers and they both think this is a lot)

nona - same as john, except no one is mad about it

mercymorn - 3 followers: john, ianthe, and nona. augustine made an account and never used it but she blocked him anyway. she regularly tries to block john and ianthe and gets an error message every time. almost exclusively retweets aesthetic pictures with the occasional rant peppered in

[cuppajj]

Is there a reason why Creme Wafer Cookie has bandages over their eyes? Along with the other followers.

It’s a nod to when their saint was once a healer ;)

[aotearoa20]

Penance: Part Two. One/Two/Three

There is a part of Este’s gardens that bleeds into Mandos. Silvery trees that line a small path up to the great stone doors. It is on one of the Halls uppermost levels and most fëar avoid it if they can. Curufin could understand why. He felt ill and unsteady in the pale half-light, it was too close for the dead to be to the living. A thin, shimmering barrier lopes over him and his brothers and everything on the other side in blurred just slightly. He could just about see a Maia clad in grey approaching and with him a tall dark figure.

“Maglor,” he whispered because he could not help it. Because his spirit sang at the sight of his elder brother and there was nothing in him that could stop it. Everything is transparent in Mandos. He heard the others shuffling and sighing behind him. It had been so long.

He could not wring his hands - they kept flickering in and out of existence - but he watched them spoke to one another. Their words melted against the barrier, a useless hum of noise but he seemed alright. Damned spawn of Lúthien had had them worried over nothing. Celegorm called over to him and Maglor turned his head. He nodded slowly but before he could say a word a flash of light from further down the path stole all their attention.

Someone else, came forward out of the trees. Curufin could not have recognized them, even if he tried. How could he when in their hands, bright and clear and sharper than anything else he’d seen in the suffocating dark, he could see it. The last of their Father’s Silmarils.

He shuddered and hated himself for it. Behind him someone, Amras maybe, whined like a wounded animal. It was so close. Without much thought he reached forward, the edges of his fingers dissolving as they brush against the boundary line. A hand comes up and grips his shoulder. Caranthir, he knew, they all remember the last time they tried to escape through here.

He doesn’t even know his name, the one who held the gem, but he came up to Maglor and the Maia. He spoke even as his brother trembled, taut as a bowstring. A sudden fear gripped his heart. The constant pressence of the oath had been a companion of his for as long as he could remember. He had carried it’s burden until the scraps of the person were burnt to dust. If this was really the end – if, for he has lived far too long in the world not to suspect this to be another trick of fate – would there be anything left of him at all.

“It will kill him,” Maedhros’ voice was deep and dull.

By the edge of the doorway Namo stands, two Maiar are at his side. All but his eyes are obscured behind a veil and they are fixed on Maglor.

“If he does we shall be there.” He replied gently.

And then the stranger holds out what is all in all a very simple circlet, with the jewel fastened to it. Maglor snatched it into himself and wails. Námo’s Maiar brush past him, catching his brothers fëa brefore his body hits ground.

Curufin tried to speak. He reached out again, this time for Maglor. He thinks he might have screamed too. For a moment everything burns. It is as though something is ripping out his heart and every artery that grows off from it, carefully and cleanly as pulling the backbone from a fish. He falls to his barely corporeal knees and thinks he must be coming undone entirely and then... nothing.

He put his hand to his chest. A sob caught in his throat. There is nothing there. Beside him Morifinwë was also crying, but he takes deep needless breaths in between. When he looked he saw a light in his eyes that he knew died in his own, centuries ago. Curufin looked back down at the slate shards that line the garden path. Tears dry on his lashes. He felt nothing.

“So the agreement is sealed,” Námo said, as Maglor was ushered into the dark, “When you are remebodied in the Gardens, there will be someone to guide you to those you will serve.”

“To whom will we be going?” Celegorm spoke up.

“It has not been decided, you will learn once you wake.”

“Don’t separate Ambrassua.” Maedhros very nearly ordered.

Námo nodded and looked across them all, “You are not obliged to leave now, some of you I’d even counsel to remain a while longer.”

His eyes land on him and Curufin seethed. He crossed his arms over himself, trying to cover up the gaping emptiness within his being. How he hated this place. Hated being forced to take any sort of form. He was exposed. Everyone could see everything. Or the severe lack of anything.

A body at least could hide the lack. No, He would not stay here to be mocked or pitied or worse, not for all the jewels under the Earth.

“We will go together.” He heard Maedhros say and nodded vehemently. Whatever waited out in the Gardens had to be better than this.

[bvckbiter]

fav thing to torment smartwatermagic with? :D

it’s al’s self-destructiveness. ALWAYS. he drags himself out of their web because he feels like he has to then can’t help but return anyway. they’re angry, but they’ll put away their anger because it’s what they signed up for, then feel guilty about being angry. then al will feel guilty about them being guilty. rinse and repeat

[teecupangel]

Ok so Desmond having Ghost Riders abilities would cool be right? But! What if his bleeds also have those abilities? As in his bleeds appear like that one memory in Revelations where Altaïr used those ghost(?) assassin's and stuff

Oooohhhh. I know Ghost Rider has more abilities but all this gave me an idea of using the Penance Stare as some kind of Eagle Vision mutation that only happens to the bloodlines that would lead to Desmond.

And their version of the Penance Stare is that they’re able to keep their target in place so they can assassinate them.

That’s because their version of the Penance Stare is incomplete, their Isu genes not enough to fully use the Penance Stare.

For a centuries, the Penance Stare is considered to simply be a mythical ability that can paralyze someone who has stared into the eyes of an Assassin with an Eagle Vision.

Some even try to rationalize it as just the target seeing an Assassin and being frozen in fear.

Then…

Desmond starts to Bleed and he received the Penance Stare.

He could feel it. There’s something missing in the stare even as he used it to stop Cross from moving or speaking.

There was something missing.

Even when he used it together with the Apple to keep Vidic in place while the Apple controls the guards to shoot him.

There was still…

Something missing.

But he didn’t found an answer.

Because the world needed him to die in its place.

And he did as was required of him because the alternative was simply too much.

So no one was more surprised than him when he woke in an autopsy room.

And that’s when the Penance Stare finally showed its true form.

But it wasn’t Desmond’s stare at forced the doctor who was about to dissect him to fall to his knees, begging forgiveness as all the pain and suffering he inflicted on the innocents start to bombard his very mind, forcing him to relive all the pain and suffering he had caused before.

No.

Desmond could see them.

The stares…

… of his Bleeds standing all around him.

Staring at the doctor as they silently judged him.

.

.

So in this idea, Desmond can’t do the Penance Stare, it’s his Bleeds who surrounds him like ghosts haunting him. No one can see his Bleeds but, if they do, they are subjected to the Penance Stare.

Desmond has no control over who is able to see them, other than the fact that the Penance Stare seemed to be targeting people with ‘sins’ in general which is bad since the Assassins aren’t sinless so Desmond is forced to not show himself to any of his friends and the other Assassins in fear of hitting them with the Penance Stare by mistake. This means that there are many Assassins who are suspicious of his strange man saying he’s Desmond but something’s wrong with his Eagle Vision and Bleeds and it’s dangerous to meet with him face to face.

So now… Desmond is left more or less alone, trying to find more information about where Juno is right now and what she’s trying to do while…

Well…

Accidentally (or maybe not) taking down Abstergo personnel and Templars who have ‘sinned’.

[devilatelier]

evil baby.